


Shake Me, Can't Break Me

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [8]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Attempted Public Humiliation, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Harvey Bullock is a good bro, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Oswald Whump, black mask - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Oswald is excited about his latest business venture, but a new rival threatens to usurp him before the ink has even dried on the permits.A/N: Please note the tags, but understand that while Oswald goes through some shit in this entry, the actions themselves are NOT described in great detail, though his wounds are discussed but not in gory detail. I don't spend paragraphs describing horrific torture--I could. But I don't feel doing so in this work would add to the story in a meaningfully artistic way. At the same time, this is Gotham, torture is sort of implied if you choose to live there...





	Shake Me, Can't Break Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry ahead of time. Again, there is NO graphic detail. I'm not about to spend a ton of words on gruesome descriptions of violence. Oswald gets stabbed, cut, beaten and has a tooth removed. None of this is described in great detail, though his injuries are referenced throughout the story. I know, it sucks to see Oswald beat up, but Jim does come for him and he even gets support from some unexpected places. 
> 
> For those of you who squick at public humiliation. It is probably exactly what you think, given Oswald's love of lingerie, but the consequences of that exposure are not what you or our villain had in mind, I can assure you of this at least without spoiling the whole story. 
> 
> Good stuff happens too. There's some humor and fluffiness in here and some plot and relationship stuff... I swear I didn't just whump him without rhyme or reason. 
> 
> This fills the bingo square for Established Relationship & Saving Each Other as part of Gobblepot Positivity Week 2018. I don't know if I'll have time to fill any of the other squares this week, given time constraints but wanted to participate.

It’s storming when they come for him, and Oswald has just sent the driver off to deliver some important paperwork to the County Clerk’s office. He carefully climbs the few steps to the front door, knee aching after a long day spent finalizing plans for an upcoming business endeavor involving playing cards, dice and a lot of green paper. His Iceberg Casino and Hotel is just one pencil push away from a green light. He can’t wait to tell Jim all about it, of course, omitting the parts which might incriminate either of them. Specifically, Oswald’s plans to harbor known fugitives from the law if the price is right, among other things.

Even so, ninety percent of his floating casino will be entirely on the up-and-up. Nothing for Jim to worry about, really. He’s considering which vintage he wants to pour in celebration when two men in ski masks emerge from behind just as Oswald inserts his key into the lock.

Oswald manages to get his umbrella closed quickly enough to take out the closest thug’s knee, but his bad foot slips on the wet pavement with the inertia of the follow through. The second man takes advantage of his fumble and hooks Oswald up beneath his armpits, the other recovering in time to punch him forcefully in the stomach. When Oswald doubles over, lungs gasping to reclaim some much-needed air, a second punch lands against his temple.

Consciousness is intermittent for a while after that, mostly consisting of muffled sounds and pungent smells—quick feet slapping against wet cement, thunder, stale air, mildew. By the time he manages to achieve full consciousness again, he’s shivering and disoriented.

Entirely naked.

The cold stone of the floor he’d been dropped onto is unforgiving against the shape of his aching bones and chilled flesh. He bends his neck awkwardly as he takes in his surroundings, disconcerted by the closeness of the four walls and the complete lack of windows. The floor is no more than five feet by five feet, and the door is heavy steel with no knob or handle on the inside.

He tries to sit up, but his hands and feet are bound, and rocking back and forth in an effort to get upright makes him feel nauseated so he curls inward on himself instead. His attempts to assume a dignified position cause him to let loose an involuntary groan, earning the unwanted attention of whoever’s feet are shuffling just beyond the door.

Said door bangs open just a few moments later, and yet more men in ski masks enter the tiny space to surround him. They hook their arms around Oswald’s elbows and heave him from the room, his left foot catching against the doorjamb as they drag him through. He recognizes the structure once the pain subsides and he can open his eyes where they’ve squeezed shut. It’s a meatpacking plant, an old disused one from back in the day, and Oswald’s cell is actually a refrigerator.

Perfect.

His captors dump him onto a frigid metal chair, but Oswald’s equilibrium is unsettled and he lists to the side. He is helpfully slapped hard across the face to correct his posture. A bright light is clicked on, blinding him to all but its fluorescent yellow orb and the shadowy silhouettes of the men around him.

“Is this…” Oswald coughs, wheezing as he fights for the words. “…really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, Mister Cobblepot.” The confidence apparent in the man’s tone reveals him as the leader immediately. His voice smooth and cold, his cadence slow and exact, as if every enunciation is considered carefully before spoken aloud. It’s a voice Oswald would remember if he’d ever heard it before.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall ever having met your acquaintance,” he says, though it’s difficult to pull air in against the ache of his sore ribs. “Otherwise, you’d know I’m more receptive to _properly_ issued invitations.”

“Ah, well,” his captor chuckles. “Allow me to at least introduce myself, since the opportunity for a cordial invitation has already passed. My name is Roman Sionis.”

Oswald frowns. “Are you…new to Gotham, then?”

There’s a beat of silence then Roman says, “This is why I tend to skip pleasantries. It’s all so boring and artificial. You don’t care who I am, only what I want from you. Isn’t that right, Penguin?”

Oswald licks his lips. “Considering the circumstances, it would be only prudent to wonder,” he answers, relying on the same false good humor he used to administer when speaking with Don Falcone and Maroney in the early days.

“Indeed, it would,” Roman replies, “and the answer is simple enough.”

Oswald squints his eyes, trying to see past the glare of the light as it continues to assault his retinas. He’s losing patience. “Look, Mister—”

Suddenly, there’s a face, if it can be called such, leaning in far too close to his own—unnaturally pitch black, no hair or eyebrows, practically skeletal—and Oswald flinches back against the chair. His skin looks like charred leather, more like vinyl than flesh.

“The answer,” Roman sneers, “is everything, Mister Cobblepot. I want everything you have.”

Rough hands land on his shoulders from behind as Roman produces a switch blade, jabbing it painfully into Oswald’s left shoulder without so much as a warning. He cries out in pain, his howl echoing off the walls around them as blood flows warmly against his battered, ice-cold skin.

“Starting with names,” Sionis continues, looking through Oswald as if he weren’t even there. He takes a blowtorch offered to him by one of his many masked assistants and fires it up. “If I’m going to be taking over as the new kingpin of Gotham, I’m going to need to borrow your rolodex.”

  _Jim,_ Oswald thinks, mind reeling with pain and the remnants of what is likely a concussion, _I’m supposed to be having dinner with Jim._

***

_Day 1_

Jim chews on the inside of his bottom lip as he contemplates the conversation he needs to have with Oswald. They’ve only rarely discussed work at home, but Jim is worried Oswald is taking on too much, too soon. There’s a perilous balance between Gotham’s criminal organization currently, and Jim has just come back from the County Clerk’s office to learn that Oswald has filed for a stack of permits. It all looks legit.

Jim knows there’s got to be more to it, however.

He knows Oz has been more excited than usual, his self-satisfied grin beaming back at Jim when they part ways every morning. As much as he loves seeing Oswald happy, Jim knows how often that particular smile leads to trouble. He ruefully admires his boyfriend’s spunk even as he contemplates how to broach the subject in a way that doesn’t mirror a detective questioning a mob boss.

Christ.

Jim takes a breath. He’ll just be honest about his concern and hope it doesn’t devolve into an argument. Jim doesn’t want to fight, he just wants to make sure Oz isn’t going to attract the wrong kind of attention. He snorts at the thought.

Yeah, right.

Jim makes himself get out of the car and jog through the rain, up the stairs. He’s about to pull his keys out his pocket when he notices Oz’s set is still in the door. Curious, he tries the handle, finding it locked. Oz could have easily forgotten to retrieve his keys before closing the door, though he’s never done it before. As he’s looking down, his attention is caught by something black and pointed at the edge of the landing.

He approaches the edge of the porch and recognizes Oswald’s infamous black umbrella. Jim clenches his teeth, leaves the umbrella alone so as to not tamper with the scene. No way in hell Oswald lost track of that umbrella or tossed it casually off the porch into the shrubs.

His mind is silent, save for a light ringing in his ears as too much blood is pumped into his system alongside a hefty dose of adrenaline. Jim pulls a Kleenex from his pocket, turns Oz’s keys in the lock, fearing the worst. He quietly pushes the door open, gun drawn as he steps inside.

The house is quiet and, as he inspects each room, completely empty. Everything is exactly as they left it that morning. He holsters his gun,  and returns to the doorway to further investigate.  Jim does notice a small spray of blood dotting the bottom left corner of the door upon closer inspection. There’s no doubt in his mind who it belongs to, but Jim collects it anyway. Oz’s DNA is absolutely on file, and if it’s a match, Jim’s suspicions can at least be confirmed.

“Abducted from the outside stairway, approximately three-fifteen, Wednesday,” Jim detachedly mutters under his breath as he swabs up the sample. “Suspects…” Jim sighs, chagrined. “ _Everyone_.”

Jim doesn’t waste time by indulging the darker corners of his imagination, narrows his focus to working the case instead. He labels his boyfriend ‘Penguin’ as he phones it in to Harvey, takes his fear and his worry for Oswald and pushes it down to be addressed later. Soon enough, the manor is locked up and taped off, as the GCPD forensics department take their pictures and collect Jim’s bottled sample of blood.

Harvey leans against his car, watching alongside him, as Oz’s home—Jim would be lying if he said he didn’t think of it as his home too— becomes an active crime scene. He tries to think of anything he’s left inside personal enough that it might reveal his frequent inhabitance should anyone look too closely. He and Oswald are still careful, and Jim knows that should anyone sweep the closets all they’ll see are zipped up tuxedo bags. Even if they were to open them, which they shouldn’t, he and Oz are close enough in size that his suits won’t strike the average forensics officer as noteworthy.

As for the rest, there’s a pile of toothbrushes in the top bathroom drawer, all of them in travel cases. Jim knows which is his only by color, and he still replaces it there after every use. His phone charger is in his car, and Jim never brings a bag over, hasn’t dared to bring much more here than some spare clothes and the small things Oswald has gifted him. For as often as Jim stays over these days, he and Oswald are both too paranoid to get sloppy. Especially now that Ed knows about them.

Though, he’s not yet done anything with the knowledge. That they know about. Jim sighs, suddenly feeling beyond exhausted. This is basically his home, goddamnit, and it’s hard to watch it being invaded, by invitation or otherwise. Luckily, he and Harvey are the only two detectives on the scene, and as the Captain, he can assign the case as he sees fit. There aren’t any secrets within the mansion that Harvey doesn’t already know, Jim’s residence key among them.

“Any ideas?” Harvey asks, offering his flask.

Normally, Jim would abstain, but whiskey sounds exactly like something he needs just now. He takes a swig, a momentary relief from his thoughts as it burns a path down his esophagus. “Only the usual suspects.”

 “Who do you wanna hit up first, Barb or Nygma?”

Jim grits his teeth, goes with the obvious option first. “Nygma.”

***

The hours bleed together, time losing meaning since Oswald awakened in this godforsaken hellhole. He’s so hungry, his throat hoarse from thirst. The carelessly cauterized wound on his shoulder itches and aches in turns. There has been a total of one meal consisting of instant oats and dry bread. It took the edge off but wasn’t enough to cull his clawing hunger. It doesn’t matter, really.

Hunger is the least of Oswald’s concerns.

The food, horrible as it was, presented his only respite from a brand of torture that makes him long for his days with Hugo Strange and that vile Peabody woman. He almost even misses Jerome. Roman, or Black Mask1 as his men refer to him, is militaristic in his approach. He will dogmatically ask Oswald questions about his business, who his connections are for various suppliers in the underworld or what Gotham’s rival crime lords’ vulnerabilities are and whether or not Oswald has any affiliation with Wayne Enterprises.

If Oswald refuses to answer or resorts to spitting vitriol, Roman will slice a tally into Oswald’s chest—to account for his disobedience—and either beat him until he falls unconscious or shove his face into a pale full of water until Oswald is sure he’s breathed his last.

Most often, Oswald provides Roman with obvious fabrications. He has endured too much for too long, after all, to simply hand over his empire to some egomaniacal upstart. Besides, Oswald has no illusions here. Battered as he may be, currently, he is more valuable to Roman alive than dead, and Oswald is not above stalling until he can figure out a way to escape or send a message. Because the second Roman thinks he has what he needs to bring the other crime lords of Gotham to heel, he’ll bury a blade in Oswald’s spleen and toss him off the accursed pier.

The man has seemingly gone to great lengths to discern Oswald’s rank among Gotham’s less polite society, yet he remains so very delusional. Oswald does not directly, or even indirectly, command his fellow degenerates. Obviously, there’s a bit of tit-for-tat here and there, temporary liaisons formed one minute and dissolved the next over mutually beneficial opportunities. Such as Oswald’s floating casino, which is one way he is attempting to make some necessary overtures, but the idea that there’s some definitive pecking order is laughable. There’s territory, and people who have a majority share, which is slightly more balanced after Sophia’s horde was split up among those ambitious enough to claim it and powerful enough keep it held.

He’ll be damned if he’s about to explain all of that to some pretentious outsider, however. To hell with Roman Sionis if he thinks a little torture and intimidation is enough to break the Penguin. Certainly, he is wearing thin, but Jim will be looking for him by now, and he has faith in his detective.

The door to his make-shift cell swings open with a resounding clang as his captor’s masked henchmen waltz menacingly into the room. Oswald scurries back against the wall, his naked limbs folding around himself in a desperate attempt to simply disappear. He refuses to break against these horrid hours spent in torment, but his body is sore, his mind hopelessly overstimulated by a swirl of anger, grief and constant pain. There is little respite and even then, when he isn’t being taken apart by Black Mask, he is filled with longing.

He is cold and wishes for his clothing or a blanket at the very least. What he wouldn’t give for a simple pair of socks. He wants water and real food, and something other than the unforgiving concrete to sleep on. God, he wants sleep—hours, and hours of it—because all he’s had to go on are sparse minutes of restless dozing. There’s always something banging or someone shouting to startle him anytime he closes his eyes for too long, sending him into flight or fight, ready to be dragged from this mildew-infested refrigerator at any time and bound to his usual chair. 

That’s what they do to him now, and Oswald can’t stop the thought from formulating as they force him down onto it yet again.  

 _Jim_.

He could forgo every other comfort or form of relief to go back to that last morning together, waking up in their bed and exchanging lazy kisses. The very thought of it makes him want to weep with how badly Oswald just wants to see his face. Hear his voice. He ponders the idea that quite possibly his last words to Jim were something as mundane as: ‘Don’t forget the milk.’

He groans. _God_ , how prosaic.  

 “There, there. We haven’t even gotten started today.” Roman smiles coldly at him.

Oswald sniffs, channeling a will that is more and more difficult to call upon. “By all means, continue to bore me with your dull inquisition.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Roman considers, with a tilt to his distractingly hideous head. “Tell me, what questions would you have me ask instead, Penguin?” He extracts pliers from the pocket of his pin-striped Armani suit. “I’m all ears.”

***

Day 2

Lee is present when Jim and Harvey come calling at Cherry’s to question Ed. He hasn’t seen her since she tried to poison him at the station, and Harvey is drawing his pistol before Jim is able to shake his own surprise.

Lee arches a brow at a Harvey before letting her eyes flick briefly to Jim. They flit away just as quickly, before she turns and says, “Follow me.”

Harvey holsters his gun. “Used to be a time when the people in this town responded appropriately to a loaded gun in their face.”

Jim snorts. “Yeah, well, we left Kansas in the dust a while ago, Harv.”

They share a commiserative glance before they trek after Lee, both resigned to the inevitable headache ahead. Jim didn’t get a wink of sleep, his bed at the apartment is too cold and the quiet far too loud, his mind unable to settle. When he isn’t focused on the minuscule trail Oswald’s kidnappers left in their wake, Jim is plagued by images he’s seen of victims—beaten and bloody, dismembered fingers, cold empty eyes forever open to their last sight—all with Oswald’s face transposed upon them.

He knows all too well how this search could end. Jim swallows against the thought that he should prepare for the worst. A lot can happen in the first forty-eight hours of an abduction, and it’s already been a full twenty-four since Jim last saw Oz. He pushes it down, because now isn’t the time to let those walking nightmares haunt his steps. Distraction will only cause him to miss details.

 _Focus_.

Ed is sat behind a desk in the back office at Cherry’s. He’s pouring over a ledger—one Jim would love nothing more than to abscond with any other day—which he casually flips shut when he catches sight of just who Lee has invited inside.

The Riddler’s smile slips over his face as he greets them. “Detectives, to what do I owe this unexpected visit.”

Had Ed not finally managed to successfully blackmail the mayor into issuing a pardon—at least, Jim assumes it was blackmail as he doesn’t have evidence to support the theory—Jim would cuff both of their asses and haul them in for questioning. As it sits, he and Harvey are stuck playing nice.

For now.

“We’re lookin’ for your old pal, Penguin,” Harvey answers, as Jim tries to unobtrusively look around for anything incriminating lying out in the open. He’s waylaid by Lee, who steps into his line of sight.

“We haven’t seen him,” she says.

“What about your eyes all over the city?” Jim asks, casually dismissing Lee entirely as he directs the question to Ed over her shoulder. It’s petty, and he could probably claim it as a trait he picked up spending too much time around Oswald but, frankly,: Jim is still pissed at her. Poisoning someone is a hell of a way to ‘cut ties.’ Jim would have been satisfied with a text message. He isn’t really ready to see her yet, but these circumstances have pushed him into it. “Any of them reported anything interesting lately?”

Ed considers him for a moment, clearly tempted to make mention of all the things they’ve seen whilst spying on Jim, but he clears his throat. “Nothing specific,” he says cryptically instead.

“Paint us a picture, then,” Harvey insists.

“What belongs to you,” Ed replies, “but other people use it more than you do?”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Your name.”

Ed nods, patronizingly. “Very good, Detective.” He then squints at Harvey. “You, on the other hand, didn’t even try. Going soft in more than just the middle, eh, Bullock?”

Harvey steps forward, threateningly, before Jim throws up an arm to stop him. “What’s your point, Ed?” Jim growls.

Lee pipes up, startling the tension from the room, “It’s a name.”

Ed rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed at having his game deterred. Jim spares a moment to think, ‘trouble in paradise?’ before pushing the errant observation aside. “One we’ve heard before?” He presses.

“Riddle me this—”

“What goes boom-boom like a firework?” Harvey interjects, raising his pistol to Ed’s nose and cocking the hammer.

Ed’s mouth settles into an unimpressed frown as he huffs. “It’s a new guy.”

“They call him Black Mask,” Lee adds. “But it’s just rumors. No one knows what he looks like or what he wants. Just that he’s been trying to make friends.”

“Friends with who,” Jim demands.

Lee shrugs. “Anyone with a stake in the city.”

“But not you?” Harvey asks, no small amount of skepticism coloring his voice.

Ed sniffs. “What can I say? Our assets are undervalued.”

Harvey disarms the pistol, shoves it back into its holster as Jim says, “If this…Black Mask has gone after Penguin, he’ll be sniffing around the rest of you soon enough.” He pulls a little purple gift bag out of his coat pocket, tosses it onto Ed’s desk as a reminder that he owes Jim for not pressing charges—assaulting an officer, extortion, kidnapping, to name a few. “That happens—I want to know about it.”

Ed picks up the bag, flipping it over. He meets Jim’s gaze, and suddenly there’s no trace of the Riddler. “How long has he been missing?”

“Eighteen hours, approximately2.”

“Without a trace?”

“That’s official police busi—” Harvey starts, but Jim cuts him off. They could use Ed, if he’s feeling charitable toward Oswald. Jim thinks there’s some friendly feelings there, still, and he’ll exploit them if he can.

“Some blood on the door, keys in the lock,” Jim divulges. “His umbrella was found in the hedges over the side of the porch. It happened in broad daylight.”

Harvey eyes him with narrowed eyes, teeth clenched. Jim knows it’s a risk, but ignores him anyway as he asks, “You’re sure none of your guys saw anything?”

Lee and Ed share a glance, before Ed nods and Lee practically floats from the room. Ed replies, as he dons his ridiculous hat, “If anyone did, we’ll be in touch.”

He walks Harvey and Jim back out to the front, bidding them a ‘gentlemen’ before leaving them on the sidewalk and climbing into a car that pulls off to go God knows where to do god knows what.

Harvey sighs, reproachful. “Helluva play in there, Jim.”

“Ed owes me one,” Jim reassures, then shrugs. “Besides, without Oswald standing in the way, their little haven here would be swallowed up by the real power.”

“Still,” Harvey replies with a shake of his head, “wouldn’t put it past those two to try and do a little exploiting of their own.”

Jim shrugs. “Not with me in their way.”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Jim,” Harvey says to that. “Sure he’s worth the trouble?”

“I know…” Jim swallows, because Harvey is right to be reluctant. It’s a conflict of interest for Jim to be working this case, full stop.  He definitely shouldn’t have involved Harvey. Jim grits his teeth, nodding self-consciously, because Harvey is the only friend Jim has, the only person close to him aware of the personal stakes he has in this manhunt, so Jim is going to do the right thing and tell Harvey he can handle it on his own.

He opens his mouth, but Harvey drapes his arm across Jim’s shoulders, gives him a quick squeeze. “Hey, we’ll find him. I promise.”

Jim shakes his head as Harvey pulls away, hates how his voice shakes when he says, “It’s not your problem, Harvey.”

 “Look, I don’t like the little bastard,” Harvey admits, rubbing a hand over chin, “wanna choke him half the time, but I know…” he shrugs, grimaces, then leans forward to whisper between them, eyes locked dead with Jim’s own. “I know you love him, alright? And maybe I don’t get it, but I do know there’s no way someone like you could fall for someone that doesn’t have at least some redeeming qualities.” He blows out a breath. “God knows what they are, and I definitely don’t want to hear about it, but you’re my friend, Jim. I’m not just gonna leave you hangin’ because I hate your boyfriend.”

Jim huffs a shaky chuckle. “I owe you one,” he offers, overwhelmed.

Harvey grips him behind the head, presses their foreheads together in a gesture they’ve adopted over the years that is cheekily similar to something used between mafiosos, and says, “Nah.”

***

Oswald keeps his eyes closed, refusing to join with the present for as long as he can. Instead, he conjures the image of Jim braced over him the first time he’d taken Oswald to bed. “What are you doing?” Jim had asked back then.

Oswald remembers how overwhelmed he’d been, how taken aback by the contrast between his idle fantasies and the reality of Jim’s touch. He’d been drunk with it, and far too sincere with his reply: “Remembering you.”

The vulnerability had been worth it, Oswald recalls. Before that night, on the rare occasions Oswald had dared to let his mind stray to the detective, he’d always imagined a reluctant Jim, one who touched him with a restrained desire he didn’t wish to feel; wanting, but angry about it. It was nothing like the way Jim had taken him apart that night, playful and tender, a side of the man Oswald had never been witness to previously—would have never dreamed Jim could focus such affection upon him for the space of a moment, let alone the past year.

Oswald didn’t deserve it then, and he knows he doesn’t deserve it still, but he isn’t altruistic enough to let Jim go, and he’s been assured more than once that Jim doesn’t want to be free. That Oswald is wanted as surely as he himself _wants_.

A cold hand, swiping gently at his tears, startles him from his reverie. The touch is all wrong. It ruins the illusion, and Oswald would rather face whatever Roman has planned, head-on, than have that blessed memory tainted by his filth.

“I brought you a surprise.” Roman says with bland cheer as he holds up Oswald’s panties. “I can’t seem to recall what happened to the rest of the clothes you came in with, but these will at least help to keep you modest.” He says the last bit as he eyes the panties with mild disgust, “Sort of.”

Oswald feels his face tingling, numb with the spike in his blood pressure as his emotions surge and war between shame and fury. He keeps his fence carefully blank, however, refusing to give Roman the satisfaction of knowing how deeply this latest cut rends. With shaking hands, he takes the item and puts it on mechanically. It’s a black, lace [body suit](https://xdress.com/collections/mens-bodysuits-and-leotards/products/the-sexy-lace-midnight-jumper?variant=4903356366889) with a repeating floral pattern. Aside from the lace, however, it isn’t his usual style. It has short sleeves rather than straps, ending just around his biceps, the middle flows loosely around his hips where the elastic waist connects the bottoms, which are short-shorts that just reach his upper thighs. He’d gotten it as a playful surprise for Jim on his last birthday.

It is one of two he’d purchased for the occasion, and although he’d gone with the peach number at the time, Oswald likes to wear this one under his suits occasionally for how comfortably it fits. Of course, any comfort he may have felt when he put it on, however many days ago, is entirely forfeit now. Somehow, he feels even more naked than he was before, standing in front of Roman and his henchmen in nothing but his lingerie as they gawk and snigger.

“As grateful as I am for your…present,” Oswald manages to say with as much graciousness as he can muster, “I am somewhat at a loss as to the occasion.”

“After all the long conversations we’ve shared,” Roman purrs, “I can’t simply wish to give my new friend a gift?”

Oswald isn’t in the mood to unpack all of the things wrong with that statement, and instead fixes the man with an expectant stare. He doesn’t care if it costs him, at this point. Oswald had tired of this man’s games somewhere within the first twenty minutes of making his unfortunate acquaintance.

“Oh, fine.” Roman shrugs, gesturing to his henchmen who force Oswald back into his chair. One of them places a bowl of water at his feet as another masked man enters the room with a small black, leather bag. “We’re going to a show tomorrow night, and I want you to look your best, Mister Cobblepot.”

Oswald’s pulse quickens at both the statement—because, hello, ominous much?—and the men working at his feet. They’re washing him, he realizes, as they withdraw soap and towels from the bag. Oswald flinches at their touch, clinical though it may be, as they begin cleaning his dirty feet.

“I would be happy to wash up without assistance if you would permit,” Oswald suggests, as subserviently as possible.

The muscle of Roman’s eyebrow inclines, before he nods. “Of course,” he replies, all condescending accommodation. “Allow the Penguin to wash himself,” he orders his men, before returning his attention to Oswald. “If you try anything, I will not hesitate to take something irreplaceable from you as recompense for your deception.” His eyes flit momentarily to Oswald’s crotch, and he can’t stop the full body tremor the implicit threat provokes.

Oswald doesn’t bother washing the parts of himself covered by the lingerie, wanting this moment of his life to be over as swiftly as possible. They allow him to clean himself as best as he is able with the materials supplied before they bind his hands once again, and feed him another serving of lumpy, bland oatmeal.

The entire time, as he struggles to eat around his aching jaw, Oswald wonders when the first strike will land but it never comes. Instead, when he is finished eating, Roman crouches before him and smiles his disturbing black, lipless smile. It’s all teeth as he says, “It’s come to my attention that you are not a man to be underestimated. I’ve used every tactic imaginable to break you, but here you are—bloody, beaten, yet defiant. Still.

“You have to understand, I haven’t the patience to come up with any new methods of persuasion, but the small amount of time I’ve been in Gotham has already enlightened me. Your information is undoubtedly vast. I bet there are countless little secrets buried within the very mortar of this city, and that you are privy to every single one.

“I had planned to pry them out of you, but I have come to realize you gave me everything I needed on that first day. I can admit it: You were right. I need to make an _introduction_ , Oswald. Moreover, if I want to rule this city, and pool its resources to my whims, then I need to make an impression.”

Oswald swallows thickly, as his mind turns sluggishly. He wants to know what Roman is planning, but he is equally invested in remaining blissfully unaware. It would be wise to remain quiet, let Black Mask continue his big reveal so that Oswald can escape this encounter without further injury.

And yet, some mutinous part of him spits the foolish reply, “I’m certain your face will be impression enough.”

Roman is momentarily taken aback, shoulders drawn taut beneath his designer suit, before he backhands Oswald across the jaw, on the same side from which his molar had been wrenched during one of their previous sessions. Of course, Roman recovers his unaffected countenance quickly. He ignores Oswald’s pained cries, gathering up his trembling bound hands into his own—those hands that have tormented Oswald for untold hours are deceptively gentle as he finally reveals his plans.

“I’m going to throw a party tomorrow night, and invite all of your colleagues, to introduce myself summarily. I will then bring you lower than you’ve ever been in your entire, miserable existence before I gut you in front of everyone. Then, they’ll be forced to recognize me as the new order of this fair city.”

***

Day 3

It’s four in the morning on Friday, and Jim lies awake in bed, mind turning itself inside out in search of some hitherto unseen thread. Oswald has been missing for thirty-seven hours, and Jim is no closer to finding him now than he was when he’d come home to find Oswald’s umbrella on the porch and blood smeared on the door.

 He and Harvey had dropped by the Sirens after their meeting with Nygma to question Barb, which went about as well as expected.

She had rolled her eyes upon seeing him enter her club and he’d gritted his teeth through her goading, until eventually she admitted there’d been no word regarding the Penguin’s whereabouts, saying, “That little cockroach will resurface eventually. He always does. Unfortunately.”

There’s been nothing further from Lee or Ed either, though Gilzean has since confirmed their claims. He even furnished Jim with a new lead regarding the identity of their new player.

Apparently, Black Mask is actually Roman Sionis, a wealthy Gotham native who left the area after a house fire claimed the life of his family. All of this according to Alfred who claims the fire “…left the child horribly disfigured.” He recalled that there was nothing anyone could do at the time to fix the damage done by a mask which had melted over his face.

Alfred only knew him because Sionis’ parents used to rub elbows with the Waynes. Aside from the events of the fire, Alfred remembers very little about Roman except that he was quiet, and his parents were affluent and inattentive when the child was near. Bruce has no memory of him at all.

Jim used the information to track Sionis back to Chicago, where he grew up after the fire. The trail goes cold after that, as he has yet to make a physical appearance in Gotham. Sionis reportedly lives as a recluse on his gigantic estate in Chicago, so confirming his departure from a distance is proving difficult. Jim would have to visit his residence in person to ascertain the rumors but doing that could spell lost time in his search for Oswald if the effort proved fruitless.

So, here Jim is now after a long day of chasing leads trying to catch a few hours of sleep before doing it all over again. He knows, rationally, that he has done everything he can with the information he has, and that sleep is necessary in order to be effective on the job. However, Oswald isn’t just another case; he’s the most important person in Jim’s life.

Oz is out there, somewhere, likely enduring things Jim can’t bear to imagine all while Jim lies restlessly on Oz’s side of the bed, face half-buried in his pillow, feeling impotent and guilty. Because every minute that passes, is just another minute Jim is failing him.

He contemplates the possibility that Oswald might never be found. Or, found but washed out and lifeless, blue eyes empty with death. Jim squeezes his own eyes shut at the thought. He’s been running on fumes, had collapsed here after, not because he wanted to, but because his body had shut down. He’s still wearing his suit, for fuck’s sake.

It’s too late now. He can’t resettle.

Growling his frustration, he shoves the blankets away and pushes himself up and off the bed. For a while, he paces, thoughts alternating between replaying the details of the case so far, and a desperate chant of ‘Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.’

“He can’t be dead,” Jim tells himself. “We’d know if he were dead. He’s too high profile.”

On the other hand, wouldn’t that be the best way to exact revenge on the Penguin? What better punishment for someone as addicted to the lime light as Oswald, than to simply disappear him never to be seen or heard from again?

Forgotten entirely, with time.

Except by Jim. Because Oswald is his, and if he’s…

Jim’s heart is racing again, his chest painfully tight as he fights for composure, except what’s the point? There’s no one around. In the end, it’s that thought that does it. There’s no one around, but there’s someone who should be, and his absence is a physical ache in Jim’s chest. Oswald is in danger, or worse, and there’s not a goddamned thing Jim can do about it.

Pain blossoms over his hand, lances up his arm and Jim is shaking with fury as he pulls his fist out of the wall. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. He has to keep it together, but he can’t do that here, not surrounded by the evidence of what’s missing:

Oz’s cellphone charger laying idly over the nightstand. His long, terry robe hanging on the bathroom door. There’s a half empty cup of tea, still sitting there from last Sunday because Jim is a slob and doesn’t have hired cleaning ladies. If he opens the second dresser drawer, there’ll be panties and nylons, undershirts and gowns, and all of them will smell like sandalwood and lemongrass and Oswald.

 _Fuck_.

Jim’s not going to be getting anymore sleep anyway, he may as well pick up the trail. Maybe he overlooked something. It’s entirely possible Ed, or Barbara or, hell, even Butch, is lying. Jim needs to revisit every single interview, and—

His phone pings, and Jim rushes to the bedside table to snatch it off the charger. He flips it open to find a single text from Lee.  

_911\. Cherry’s._

Finally. This could be a lead. It could also be a trap, but Jim is already shoving his feet into his shoes and checking his pistol. If there’s even a remote chance that Lee or Ed have new information leading to Oswald, Jim needs to follow up. He shoots off a text to Harvey on the way to the car, before he speeds off toward the city.

***

Oswald is chauffeured to Roman’s private party in the trunk of a car. It’s a long drive, and he spends the majority of the commute sick with anxiety. Roman had promised to bring him low—and Oswald’s imagination runs wild with the possibilities. He pictures various scenes in which Roman forces him to beg, to plead for mercy before all of Gotham’s most powerful factions. He would do so too, happily and unashamedly, if only the bastard would give him some clothes first.

He knows what’s coming. As surely as he knows his own name.

He curses Harvey Bullock to hell and back for ever throwing that first pair of panties in his face. And then he curses Jim for encouraging him so much, for making him so damned happy that he’d forgotten what it is like to be so low, for making the upcoming fall all the harder because the man lifts Oswald up to such unimaginable heights.

And then…

He cries, because he really wants Jim to get rid of his apartment already and move in with him. He wants to get married. He wants to grow old and retire and move to some horrid cottage in the country and bicker over politics. He knows it’s a pipe dream. Jim gave him a ring, but only because Ed made him feel guilty by exposing it. He probably never had any intention of actually asking Oswald to marry him; he’d never be so foolish. Oswald is still a high-ranking gangster, and Jim is a Police Captain—they couldn’t be more different or more doomed. Oswald would have gotten arrested eventually and then, what?

Were they going to have conjugal visits in Blackgate? Picnics on the grass at Arkham? It was probably always going to end with one of them in a body bag, this is Gotham after all. Jim will be so disappointed. Or, maybe he’ll just be relieved. No more hiding, no more lying…no more having to ignore the things he can’t change about his worthless boyfriend.

Oswald sniffs, shakes his head as if to dislodge the thoughts before they can take root. Jim loves him, and Oswald would be discourteous to think he will be anything less than devastated by this…but there has to be a limit, right? Where is the threshold between ‘I love you’ and ‘love isn’t enough,’ Oswald has to wonder, because he doesn’t even have the ring now, does he? Jim undoubtedly spent a fortune between it and the tie bar, and now they’re both gone, lost to some delusional madman’s fruitless escapade. All that consideration, wasted on Oswald.

If he does manage to survive this, Oswald is going to carve that black leather right off Roman’s face. Oddly enough, contemplating all the ways in which he might dismember, disfigure or otherwise exact revenge actually manages to calm him down. By the time the car stops, Oswald is feeling much better. Until the trunk is popped, and the cold air rushes in to remind him that he is naked all but for his risqué underwear.

When his vision adjusts, the neon lights jarring, he recognizes the neighborhood. They’re in the Narrows, and Oswald is right back to panicking. He’s going to be exposed. This is worse than being shot in the gut and tossed into the river. It’s worse than being frozen in a block of ice. Worse than being betrayed over, and over, and over again. It’s worse than the fear of rejection, this impending exposure of this one thing Oswald keeps just for himself.

It’s worse than being naked.

He _wishes_ he were naked.

Instead, they tighten his gag, heedless of his aching jaw and drag him, bound, in through the back door of Cherry’s. Immediately, he can hear Roman delivering an over exuberant speech about new management, and heralding in a more profitable, orderly tomorrow. He’s led, feet unsteady against the binds at his ankles, further into the building toward the jeering noise of the crowd Roman has gathered.

He feels nauseous. His lingerie, once so empowering, now feels like a noose around his neck which he himself has tied. He’s gotten careless. Taken to wearing it as if there is nothing taboo about it. There shouldn’t be, but oh, there is. Everyone will see, and they’ll never take him seriously again just because he’s a man that enjoys wearing pretty things. It’s just panties, though to Oswald it’s so much more. Every item represents a part of himself that rarely sees the light of day. A softer, happier self that he shares only with Jim; but now he will be forced to expose it to a building full of people who are neither safe nor trustworthy.

Yay.

“Friends, and future allies of tomorrow,” Roman says, in that same jovial monotone Oswald has come to loathe, “allow me to present to you, the Penguin, your nefarious kingpin of Gotham.”

Oswald is pushed forward down the entrance ramp toward the ring. The entire room goes silent as he is nudged along, bloodied and bruised. Completely exposed. As he makes the march of shame, he can see that Roman has indeed managed to persuade—at gunpoint—Gotham’s rivaling factions to join his gathering. There are armed grunts in ski masks lining the walls and rafters, all of them pointing weapons directly at the audience in attendance. Oswald makes the mistake of finding Ed’s face in the crowd, stone cold and focused on Oswald in return. He looks thoroughly disgusted, and Oswald doesn’t love Ed, so it shouldn’t hurt.

But it does.

Because Oswald has had nightmares about this very thing. It’s a form of rejection—not for any of his actual sins, but this one particularly innocent affinity. This one thing that he does which doesn’t hurt anyone but is so offensive to so many different kinds of people. As if they have any right to judge but judge they will and Oswald will be found lacking.

As usual.

Oswald straightens his shoulders and fixes his gaze forward; he doesn’t want to make the mistake of finding any other familiar faces. Though, he can feel their eyes follow him all the way to the ring and up the stairs until he is forced onto his knees at Roman’s feet in the center. He hears the familiar ‘snikt’ of Roman’s switch as he brandishes it, waving it at the crowd.

“Now, you will all witness me dispatch this unworthy, depraved—”

“Why does he have to be naked?”

Oswald’s brow furrows, can’t keep from looking up to see Barb standing in the front row, her gang of man haters flanking her on either side. The guards along the walls narrow their focus in on her crew.

Roman snorts. “He’s not entirely naked, as you can see. These are _his_ clothes.”

Barb crosses her arms over her chest, hip jutting out as she retorts, “And where are the rest of them?”

Oswald feels his face burn all the more intensely. He ducks his head, lips trembling as he clenches his teeth around the gag in an effort to remain in control of himself. He doesn’t want to draw any additional attention to himself. His chest aches with the effort, lungs failing to provide adequate oxygen to the muscle though he tries and tries to breathe. He is sick with anxiety, but he will not be so cowed.

He won’t.

“Yes,” Roman is saying. “It’s quite distasteful, I know, but it’s necessary for you all to see. Your leader is far too soft—”

There’s a derisive ‘tsk’ then, followed by a low rumble of discontented mutters. “I don’t know what I hate about you more—your assumption that any of us need a leader or the blatant misogyny.”

Oswald risks another look in time to see Barb and Lee share a glance across the room before Lee says, deadpan, “Definitely the misogyny.”

“Misog—” Roman spits, huffing with impatience. “It’s _perverse_!”

“This is _Gotham_ ,” Ivy exclaims. “I’d be worried if there _weren’t_ anything kinky under all those fancy suits!”

Roman growls. “Forget the panties—”

“You’re the one who brought them up.” Ed is standing now, too. “You seem awfully obsessed with them, actually.”

“How dare you imply—”

“Mmm, Pervy.” Oz recognizes the voice of Victor Zsasz, and his humiliation is trampled momentarily by surprise. When did _he_ get back? Their eyes meet, and Victor waves. “Hey, Pengy! No hard feeling about Sophia, right? I mean,” he holds out his arms and appeals to them all nonchalantly as he adds, “I didn’t think she was patricidal.”

“What the hell is wrong with you people?” Roman drags Oswald up by his hair, and he growls against his gag. “I am going to gut this repulsive gimp and take over as Kingpin. Then, I am going to come for the rest of you, unless you acknowledge me as your—”

“Look, four months ago, I couldn’t have cared less, but we’re already vested,” Barb interjects.

“Besides,” Butch’s voice calls from the door, “his boyfriend wouldn’t like it.”

“Gggrrraayys!” Oswald calls around the gag, heart soaring, as he struggles against Roman’s grip to search for Jim in the crowd.

“GCPD!” Bullocks’ voice booms suddenly from the rafters. “Drop the knife, asshat!”

Roman frowns, giving the detective a once-over. “You’re his boyfriend?” Roman asks Harvey, aghast. “You don’t strike me as the type.”

“What?” Harvey blanches, gun steady. “No!”

“Tell your men to stand down.” Oswald feels his knees almost give out, he’s so relieved to hear that voice. “Let him go.”

Jim.

There’s a shift in the air that Oswald recognizes as resolve when Roman tenses beside him. His grip on Oswald’s hair tightens. His feet and hands might be bound, but Oswald only has a split second to react before he is skewered somewhere important. Roman’s attention is still on Jim, his men echoing his focus. It’s a tiny window of opportunity, but Oswald takes it as if on autopilot.

He plants his bound feet outward, like a penguin indeed, and straightens his spine, knocking Roman’s elbow at an angle so that he can then push forward and head butt him right in the temple. It doesn’t knock him out, but the man is dazed enough that Oswald is freed as they both tumble. The building erupts into chaos, after that, the rest of Roman’s reluctant audience joining Oswald’s bid to take advantage of their host’s distraction.

Oswald doesn’t pay the ruckus much attention, focused instead on his own freedom as he rolls away across the mat. His attempt is nearly thwarted when his ankle is seized by one of the masked henchmen. He kicks and thrashes as he is pulled toward the edge, but he’s freed again when Barbara tasers his assailant in the neck.

Oswald looks up to see her stripping the man out of his trench coat. She holds it up, victorious, before tossing it over the ropes onto Oswald. It’s blessedly warm but he shivers as it brings attention to how cold it is in the open air of the fight club.

There are hands on his shoulders then, and Oswald tries to twist away, only slightly calmed when he glimpses Ed in his peripheral.

“I’m trying to untie you, Oswald, relax,” Ed complains.

Oswald stills, but can’t bring himself to meet Ed’s gaze, remembering plainly the disgust he’d seen there as he’d been herded center stage. When his hands are freed, Oswald removes the gag and pulls the trench coat on properly.

He holds out his hand for Ed’s knife and declares, shortly, “I can handle it from here, thank you, Ed.”

Ed regards him, brows knit. “Oswald, I don’t—”

“Knife, Ed!” Oswald bites out from behind clenched teeth. He doesn’t want anymore hands on places he doesn’t liked touched. It’s bad enough he’s been paraded around in his underwear, but now that’s covered up, he definitely doesn’t want anyone poking around his foot.

Ed sighs. “Fine.” He hands Oswald the knife then pulls a derringer from his boot. “We’ll talk later.”

Ed slides under the bottom rope and runs off toward the area Oswald had last seen Lee. He understands the feeling as he turns his own attention to dropping out of the ring in a similar, albeit less graceful, manner and hobbling toward where Jim and Roman are fighting on the other side of the platform. His body aches with every step, but he clings to the skirting around the mat, hunched to avoid the fray of fighting bodies nearby.

When he’s close enough that his foggy vision can make them out more clearly, he sees that Jim is pinned with his back bent awkwardly against the stairs leading into the ring. Roman hovers over him, his skeletal face jeering menacingly as he fights Jim for his service pistol with one hand and chokes him with the other. Injuries forgotten, Oswald rushes forward and wraps an arm around Roman’s waist from behind, shoving his knife into soft flesh. He keeps his grip as he withdraws, yanks it out and buries it again in the bastard’s side.

Roman’s hands fly to his wounds, as he backs away from Jim, howling in pain. He spins to finally see Oswald behind him, hands bloodied and smiling as the tables are turned. Oswald relishes the moment, waving his knife with a shrug.

“You’ll have to pardon the interruption,” Oswald goads, panting with exertion, “but you do owe me a pound of flesh, after all.”

Roman lunges for him then, but Jim sticks his foot out and trips him as Oswald ducks to the side. Roman crashes into the exposed corner of the ring with a sickening ‘thunk,’ and his body slumps to the floor at their feet, knocked unconscious by the force of the impact. Jim is checking Roman’s pulse when Oswald hears the first distant wail of police sirens.

Immediately, the fighting in the club turns into fleeing as Black Mask’s thugs and Gotham’s ne’er-do-wells push toward the exits. He sees a few people taking advantage of the crush, sticking a few well-aimed daggers into vital organs but it’s no one Oswald knows or cares about, so he focuses on keeping himself and Jim safe from any like-minded opportunists as the club empties out.

Finally, with Roman secured in handcuffs, there is but a handful of steps between them as Oswald meets Jim’s gaze. His eyes are so tired, those blue irises pronounced more than usual where they are set above the tell-tale bags beneath his lashes. Oswald wants nothing more than to close the distance between them but the GCPD are rushing in, and he is crashing hard from the recent adrenaline rush. He feels like he’s standing on quicksand, his knees unsure against the shifting ground.

Oswald is happily surprised when Jim breaks all of their previously upheld agreements regarding shows of public affection. He’s crossed the distance between them, and Oswald can’t contain his reaction. He groans when Jim’s arms wrap around him, his familiar scent a balm to Oswald’s senses. He wants to return the embrace, audience be damned, but Jim’s arms have him trapped. He doesn’t mind, lays his head against Jim’s shoulder instead and sighs as he is lowered to the floor.

“Oswald?” Jim says, sounding harries. Oswald, himself, feels fine except he’s so tired all of a sudden. He doesn’t want to sleep on the floor, lord knows what he’s lying in, but if it’s what Jim wants…

“Oswald! Hey, come on. Stay with me.”

Jim shakes him, and Oswald frowns. He’s been awake for days, but Jim is here now and so it’s safe to sleep, isn’t it? It’s safe enough now. “S’ire’d,” Oswald explains, smiling as Jim goes blurry around the edges.

***

Jim has to put the doctor’s medical report down three times before he manages to finish reading it through. He’s got a tense hand braced against his own mouth, teeth clenched as errant tears slide down his face. Neither of them are a stranger to pain and violence, but this is on an entirely different level.

 Oz’s medical report is a crime scene in the literal flesh; a myriad of bodily traumas. The list goes on and on: Concussion, dehydration, a sprain on his good ankle, dry socket from a molar Sionis appears to have plied out, and a burn that turned out to be a cauterized stab wound which then led to an infection. The doctors had to open the wound and clean it out, then pump Oz full of antibiotics. Finally, his body is covered in multiple contusions and lacerations, including fourteen tally marks across his chest which the doctors note are shallow and will either fade over time with proper care or can be corrected with plastic surgery.

It’s well after visiting hours, but Oswald is technically wanted for questioning regarding his captivity and torture at the hands of Roman Sionis, so he’s under police hold at the hospital while he recovers. Since this case is directly under he and Harvey’s purview, Jim technically has free reign to come and go without too much side-eyeing.

Oswald wakes intermittently, morphine or no, and so Jim passes off his regular visits as routine attempts to question him. Mostly, however, Jim sits in the chair at the foot of Oswald’s bed, anxiously chewing his thumbnail as he contemplates sneaking down a couple floors to finish the job Oswald started back at Cherry’s.

Jim frowns as he recalls the scene he’d walked into at the fight club just a few days ago. Sionis had Oz displayed in that ring like some kind of circus side show, as if liking sexy panties was Oswald’s paramount crime. Thinking about it only serves to make Jim even more inclined to murder the bastard.

It’s a welcome reprieve when Harvey announces his presence with a soft series of knocks against the door before letting himself in. He’s been in and out of the hospital this week too, battling with Sionis’ lawyer who won’t allow the man to be questioned without her present. She’s trying to pull the case back to Chicago, claiming Sionis won’t get a fair shake in Gotham due to the extensive local media coverage.

Jim hates her, and he hasn’t even met her. That would require him to set foot on the same floor as Sionis, and Jim doesn’t trust himself.

“Hey, buddy,” Harvey greets, tossing him a wrapped sandwich from Subway. He shoots Jim a conspiratorial before he closes the door, within earshot of the guards outside, and says, “Penguin spill any beans yet?”

Jim huffs. “Nah. Same ‘ol, same ‘ol. What about Black Mask?”

“Other than being a sanctimonious jackass?” Harvey shrugs, tone more natural as he approaches the bed. “Not so much.”

“She getting her way? Is he going back to Chicago?”

“Probably.”

Jim surges to his feet, pulse kicking as he swipes the water pitcher clear off the tray table so that it smashes against the wall just under the window. “That son of a bitch!”

A nurse comes in, then, expression concerned as her eyes fly between the two detectives and Oswald’s helpless form on the bed. As if Jim would dare.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, stepping further into the room. She closes the door when she noticed the guards peeking in nosily.

Harvey smiles reassuringly, dropping a calming hand over Jim’s shoulder. “Different son of a bitch,” he explains to the nurse. “This here son of a bitch is perfectly alright.” He grimaces as Oz’s heart monitor beeps steadily in the following awkward silence, as if to chastise his inappropriate attempt at humor. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Jim apologizes instead. “I’ll clean it up. I…it’s been a long week.”

That seems to do the trick, Oz’s nurse affecting a sympathetic smile. “It’ll be alright. I know it’s hard to see someone you love in so much pain.” She opens the small closet by the bed and pulls out a fresh towel before handing it over to Jim. “Just try to stay calm. You don’t want to startle him after…” she falters for a moment, unsure, before finally saying, “Well, after everything.”

Jim nods, jaw tight before he turns away to clean up the mess. He hears the door open and click shut again before Harvey pulls him into a rough hug. Jim hates himself for it, but he can’t hold back the angry sob that follows.

“I wasn’t fast enough, Harvey,” Jim cries. “This is my—”

“Don’t even say it,” Harvey intercedes. “This is not your fault. You found him, okay? You found him before there wasn’t nothin’ of ‘im left. You wanna blame someone? You blame that sick fucker downstairs, you got me?”

Jim sniffs, pulls himself together. He knows Harvey is right, but it’s Jim’s job to protect and serve, and that fact that he couldn’t even do that for his…for Oswald? It’s a hard to pill to swallow.

Harvey leans back, both hands clasping Jim’s shoulders as he looks him in the eye. “You good?”

Jim nods. “Thanks, Harv.”

Harvey gives his shoulders a final squeeze before letting go and reaching into his pocket. “Hey, got something that’ll cheer you up.”

“What’s that?” Jim asks tiredly.

His partner extracts a black velvet bag from his pocket and dangles it between them before Jim gives in and takes it. As he opens it, Harvey says slyly, “I swiped those from the bastard’s coat pocket when his attorney lady wud’n around.”

Oz’s ring and his tie bar slip out onto his palm and Jim’s mouth goes wide as he regards Harvey in stunned gratitude. He feels the first genuine smile he’s experienced since Oz’s abduction grace his face as he asks sincerely, “What would I do without you?”

Harvey squints his eyes and shrugs. “I was just snooping when I happened to come across ‘em. Figured it might ingratiate the little shit to me a smidge. Earn me some free credit at his new swanky casino when it opens.”

“Don’t…count on it,” Oswald says, startling them both before Jim rushes forward to take his hand. “Can I see them?”

Jim nods, handing them over one at a time. Oswald’s eyes are misty when he regards Bullock. “I still hate you.”

Harvey snorts and Jim chuckles.

“But this was descent of you, Bullock,” Oswald admits. “I won’t forget it.”

Harvey arches a brow at that, then grins mischievously. “Couple ‘a rounds of black jack—water under the bridge.”

Oswald raises his chin, eyes shrewd as he bargains, “Ten minutes alone with my boyfriend without interruption, and I’ll guarantee you an invitation for opening night.”

“Done.” Harvey sniggers, punching Jim on the shoulder as he makes for the door. “Think I’ll go relieve the boys outside for a coffee break.”

“Please come here,” Oswald says when Harvey is gone, scooting over to make room for Jim on the side not hooked up to all manner of machinery.

Jim goes without fuss, secure in the knowledge they won’t be discovered. While Butch’s cheeky declaration at Cherry’s has awakened Jim to the likelihood that most of Oswald’s peers already know about their relationship, Jim would like to keep his own colleagues guessing for as long as possible.

Oz lifts up the blankets, and Jim settles himself on his side, pillowing his head on Oz’s uninjured shoulder and curling in so he can gently tangle their legs together. Oz’s fingers card through his hair while Jim rubs his thumb across the knuckles of Oz’s freehand, where it rests on his stomach, over, and over.  For a while, all they do is breathe together.    

Then, Oz takes Jim’s fidgeting hand and holds it up. “How’d this happen?” He asks, clearly referring to the bandaged wrapped around Jim’s knuckles.

“Punched a wall,” Jim admits.

 Oswald sighs. “It wasn’t your fault, Jim.”

Jim sucks in a breath, lets it out shakily. “I know that,” he responds tightly.

“Yes, but you feel responsible nonetheless which is silly,” Oz argues. “It all happened very quickly.”

Jim grits his teeth. “You were just…gone.”

There’s a gentle press of lips against his forehead, then: “Well, you know what they say.”

“What do they say?” Jim inquires, bemused.

Oswald giggles softly. “No one expects a Spanish Inquisition.”

Jim’s brain grinds to a halt, completely thrown. “Did you just…” Jim snorts, then he barks an entirely inappropriate laugh that turns into a full-on cackle.

When they finally manage to compose themselves, quiet lulling between them once more, Jim leans up on his elbow to meet Oz’s overly fond, half-drugged stare. “I missed you.”

Oz grins, pulls him down into a slow, chaste kiss. When Jim pulls back, Oz says, quietly urgent, “Move in with me.”

Jim goes still, his heart loud in his ears as he considers. It wouldn’t be that different, really. He already has all his mail sent to a PO Box because Jim can’t trust his neighbors not to commit check fraud. He’s thought about it in passing, even, but pushed it aside for several reasons, maintaining their privacy chief among them. That hasn’t stopped Jim from thinking of the manor as home, however.

Jim would have to come clean to the commissioner, and it might cost him some temporary professional scrutiny, but Oswald has been able to run his business from a distance, like an orbiting satellite. It’s there, you know it’s there, but you can’t see it clearly without an expensive, powerful telescope. His cases would be audited, but Jim knows they won’t find anything. He might be in love with the mob, but he isn’t actually a dirty cop. Harvey would make sure he got a fair shake.

When Jim reaches a decision, he looks up to see Oz chewing his bottom lip. Jim opens his mouth, but Oz cuts him off. “That’s okay.” He says, nodding, eyes watery and resigned. “I know it’s…it’s just a dream.” He laughs weakly, “It’s probably all the drugs.” 

Jim sighs. Oswald is ever prepared for disappointment. It’s a remnant leftover from their earlier relationship, one Jim can’t seem to dislodge no matter how hard he tries. “Is it, Oswald?” Jim asks.

Oz averts his eyes, shrugs.

Jim presses. “Do you want me to move in with you?”

He can see Oswald’s jaw clench when he closes his eyes and nods, as if he’s confessing to some awful sin. “I kept thinking about it when…while I was gone. I know it’s foolish.”

“Maybe.” Jim hums as he leans over and kisses Oz’s bandaged temple, then the corner of his eye, before he whispers just above his ear. “But we’re gonna do it anyway.”

 

 

 

1: I went cruising for some lesser known, less cared about villains from Batman’s gallery, and I came across Black Mask. He is actually supposed to be about Bruce’s age, but I modified his story somewhat to work him into my own world. There were plenty of villains to choose from, but his wiki reported that he has tried to take over Gotham’s underworld in the past and so I figured with some modifications here and there, his story would be the one I would have to modify the least to incorporate. I didn’t want to create my own villain—it’s what Batman is known for, after all. You can read up about him on wiki. He’s an interesting fellow.

I didn’t kill him off because I figured it would be truer to form to have him survive as a future threat within the world, for Batman. I did drop a few hints in that direction, even though I don’t have any plans to write a future Bruce fic involving this but there’s background here now and who knows how he might come in future entries. I have no idea. I’m making this shit up, well, some of it, as I go along.

2: You’ll notice a difference here between how long Jim has gone without seeing Oswald (24hrs) and how long it’s been since he was estimated to have been abducted (18 hrs). Just to cut down on confusion, I thought I’d include a note about it since it occurs so closely within the text. It’s not a typo. <3

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed the story and don't hate me now, please do leave a comment or kudo below! Thanks. <3


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